


Hostilities

by AlasPoorYorcake



Series: Culture Crash [2]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: A Semi-Coherent Plot, Gen, Lotta Concepts, Lotta Themes Here, M/M, Magic Is Sentient, Nonsensical Magic Theories, This One... May Turn Out Pretty Gay, WIP, Weird Fae Mechanics, not gonna lie, poor robbie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasPoorYorcake/pseuds/AlasPoorYorcake
Summary: Sportacus and Robbie are confronted with what may be the most dangerous news of all: they're not the only beings with magical lineage in LazyTown. And frankly, Robbie's magic is Not Having It™.





	Hostilities

**Author's Note:**

> Remember last time I mentioned my lack of an excuse? And lack of revision? Yeah, that's gonna happen a lot. On another note, related to the actual fic: this is not set in the same universe/time/whatever as Purr.
> 
> EDIT: Revision #1 is complete. Who the hell knows how many times that'll happen, so I'll just start numbering them now.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own LazyTown. Or anything LazyTown represents. I'm just tossing around their characters.

* * *

They find out only a few weeks into Sportacus’ abrupt decision to move in to Robbie’s town. In retrospect, perhaps they were blind not to have seen it earlier. There were signs, of course, which they had presumably skimmed over or ignored altogether.

Mainly:

“I like your hair, Sportacus,” Stephanie chirped with a blinding smile.

“Thank you, Stephanie,” the elf returned, and if he glanced at her a little oddly, she obviously didn’t notice, too entranced by the sudden ball in his hand. “Now, who’s ready for a game of soccer?”

Or:

“Psst! Robbie- wake up!” Stephanie whispered into the dozing man’s ear, and when he shuffled sideways, she said, “That’s better. You looked like you were crushing your, um. Well. It looked like you were crushing them.”

“Go away, short person,” Robbie snored, flinging his arm over the edge of the bench.

Or even:

“Hey, Sportacus? How come Robbie’s got all the dark colors and you’ve got these bright, light ones?” Stephanie asked, squinting eyes darting between the two men. 

They shared an odd glance, then gazed down at each other’s clothing.

“That’s just who we are, and what we like, Stephanie!” Sportacus grinned at her, and Robbie rolled his eyes grumpily.

And then, as the two adults were standing in the aftermath of one of Robbie’s failed attempts to run Sportacus over- er,  _ out of town _ , it clicks. Unfortunately, it clicks a little too hard, which is to say that it struck Robbie directly, almost knocking him out. 

That also happened to be the day Sportacus learned of the phrase, “tiptoeing” around someone. Namely Robbie.

“It  _ has _ to be magical lineage,” Robbie insisted an hour after the incident, surprisingly tolerant of the sports elf  _ escorting _ him back to his lair. “Definitely not fae, and she doesn’t smell elven, so it has to be something more obscure, something drowned out through generations. She probably doesn’t even know, which would explain it being this difficult to detect.”

Sportacus nodded on, jogging beside Robbie and willing his mouth to remain shut. It wasn’t that he didn't have several questions concerning Robbie’s speculations, but he knew that if he interrupted in any way, the villain would likely lose his train of thought, and this mess they had floundered into could get thousands of times worse.

Without his equipment, Sportacus could still sense the magical connection between Robbie and Stephanie was immense, yet sensitive. Even keeping his distance from the villain and being a whole town away from the girl, Sportacus could feel the magic tugging the half-fae back towards the mayor’s house, vibrating like a volatile electric cable.

He could only imagine what it must feel like. Fae were inherently antagonistic creatures at best, and a trespassing magical creature was usually one to fall prey to their highly territorial magic. The sports elf could remember a time when his brother would seize him by the neck in the crook of his elbow and say, “Never dine with a fae, Sport, not only are they horrendous cooks, but they won't hesitate to cast you to your grave if you try to tell them that!”

This seemed… a little more serious than insulting someone’s cooking. The hostile bond, meant to pull the fae towards the magical anomaly to “take care of it”, was usually a rather fragile thread of magic, more meant as a casual reminder than an insistent demand. 

Robbie’s magic, in contrast, was strong, coiling, and thick. It seemed alive, almost, it's own separate being. Sportacus wondered if he might’ve been able to touch it if he reached out, but common sense held his hand. The ramifications would probably be disastrous; even slightly upsetting Robbie, at this point, could set off a reaction that would dig up buildings and split the ground at their feet.

So Sportacus kept his lips sewn shut and tried to keep his exorbitant flips to a minimum. He knew Robbie didn't like having the elf out of his sight, but with his fae magic on the fritz like this, he wouldn't doubt the villain could pinpoint his location from miles away. It was probably for the best that he kept a respectful distance.

Robbie growled in frustration, bringing Sportacus back to the present and out of his cartwheeling.

“We have to find out what she knows.”

“Er, Robbie- ”

“Relax, Sporta-flip. I won’t hurt her.” He paused, then amended, “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“I don’t think I have to tell you that is not very reassuring, Robbie. Perhaps… Perhaps  _ I _ should speak to her al- ”

“ _ No. _ ”

The command was striking, sharpened by the command magic forced into it. The air fizzled and stung and, surprised, Sportacus faltered in his handstand, caught himself just before he fell. When he swung back upright, the air, pulled like a taut fabric, began to loosen.

Then he saw the flash of remorse in Robbie’s expression. “I shouldn't- I mean, I can't- ”

“Right,” Sportacus spoke over him, gaze averted. “That wasn’t a good idea.”

A cricket chirped a few bushes away, and suddenly the ribbon of nighttime lost all of its tension. Sportacus shook himself out, trying to similarly dissolve the tension in his muscles. It was past 8:08, and he could feel every ounce of energy he was using being shaved off of tomorrow’s exercise time.

“Not entirely a bad idea,” Robbie said sheepishly and a beat too late, and Sportacus got the distinct feeling he was beating around a subtle bush. “Talking to the little- uh, Pinkie, isn’t too bad an idea, at least for information purposes.”

“…Yes. Would you like to be there when we talk?”

“Yes- uh, no.” Robbie’s face scrunched up oddly. It appeared changing his expressions was the only gymnastics any part of Robbie excelled in. “Not- not together. I'll be there, just not… ‘together.’”

“That’s fine,” Sportacus said gently. “Then you can always leave if things get too… explosive.”

“Exactly,” Robbie glared at his shoes, slapping the pavement in an odd rhythm. 

A few minutes passed in silence, and Sportacus believed the time for conversation was over. Then Robbie stopped abruptly in the middle of the street and kicked at a pebble, glaring at it as it skipped off of the concrete path.

“You know, I never liked that pink pixie in the first place.” 

He paused, but Sportacus took it rhetorically, a placement for reigning in straying thoughts.

“I had thought it was all of her… flip-flop, play-ball, fun-fun-fun attitudes, like you- but then, she did always seem a little out of place next to the other kids. I passed it all off as- as irritation, that she was the antithesis of everything I stood for. I  _ ignored _ my instincts, and now- now we’re in this mess.”

Oh. It seemed Stephanie’s potential for magic was not the only thing that had been overlooked. Sportacus momentarily cursed himself for being so insensitive, milling over dozens of ways to calm the villain down yet unable to settle on any one. Hesitant to touch the villain, Sportacus settled for an earnest gaze, struggling to restrain the firmness in his voice as he settled beside Robbie.

“This is not your fault, Robbie,” he searched the man’s face, mentally urging their eyes to meet. “Your magic-”

“My magic is  _ fine _ ,” he snapped, eyes darting upward, then back down as his voice acquired an edge. “It’s her magic that needs to find another Territory to play ball and do jumping jacks and string up Christmas lights in.”

“That’s… not fair,” the elf said weakly, but didn’t bother elaborating; they had reached Robbie’s lair, and even beyond the billboard, the elf began to feel the familiar itch of hostile magic beneath his skin. He refocused on the man beside him. “Will you be alright on your own, tonight?”

The question seemed to snap Robbie into a forgotten reality. He sneered, tugging at his vest.

“I'm not here for you to coddle,  _ elf _ . I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.”

As if to argue the point, the air in front of him sparked, and he jumped back in fear, a yelp clipping his throat as he tumbled backwards. Sportacus was, fortunately, prepared for this, and was there to catch the villain as he fell.

“Get off of- let me go!” Suddenly, Robbie was scorching to the touch, and Sportacus recoiled, leaving the villain half-way standing, swinging his arms out to regain his balance. Apparently unaware of his increased voltage, Robbie dusted himself off, glanced witheringly at the dazed hero, and huffed, all in quick succession. He released a clipped, “thanks,” then pushed past Sportacus and his own billboard to his lair. 

Before he ducked into his entrance, Sportacus managed to call, “Good night, Robbie!”

“Yeah, yeah, Sporta-kook,” the villain said, and his torso disappeared in the entrance. “...Good night.”

Sportacus stared at the closed pipe for a long moment, cautiously feeling out the magic, trying to distinguish the lair’s hostility from Robbie’s hostility. Both had become increasingly powerful, were painful to the senses, and were completely indistinguishable from each other.

Just a mass of concentrated magic building off of itself, with a small strand feeding into the sleeping town.

“Ladder,” the elf commanded of his airship, and if it sounded a bit strained, or if his climbing was a bit lackluster, there was no one around to notice.

* * *

_ Bang, bang, bang. _

“Robbie! Robbie, are you in there?”

“Go away!”

Sportacus breathed a sigh of relief, tumbling backwards from the pipe entrance and leaning against Robbie’s billboard. Considering Robbie was only part fae, his lair had some peculiarly extensive wards. And itchy ones, too. Absentmindedly, Sportacus scratched at his left wrist as he called, “Stephanie is up now; I’m going to talk to her. Are you coming?”

“...I’m still asleep! Come back later!”

His voice was muffled by several hundreds of feet of dirt, metal, and who knows what else, but Sportacus could still make out the unpleasant waver in his voice. His crystal quivered, but did not activate.

“Robbie, are you… do you need help?”

“I… It depends. Is that headache-inducing beeper of yours going off?”

“Um,” Sportacus fought the heat rising to his face. “Well… no, but- ”

“Good, then get your pointed ears down here,” and  _ that _ wasn’t what he was expecting, but neither was how Robbie’s voice broke when he said, “I can’t handle this for much longer…!”

In a feat that must have shattered world records and gathered glorified infamy in elven circles, Sportacus tore through the air and straight into Robbie’s wards, wrenching open the pipe entrance and diving feet first into the lair. He had barely made it back onto solid ground, the words, “What’s wrong” barely past his lips before the magic hit him head-on.

In retrospect, he must have made a horrifying choking noise, fingernails tearing at his throat in agony, but in the moment he hadn’t felt anything at all. The  _ magic- _ Robbie’s magic-  _ fae magic _ must have spilled over and spiraled out of its owner, reacting and combusting with whatever ambient magic it could find. 

But now that Sportacus was here, there was a clear source, a well of hostile magic, a  _ host _ .

It struck quickly, before Sportacus had the time to react. He could have sworn he must have heard laughing, or growling, or screaming, as the tendrils pulled him down and pressed inward, confining his aura underneath his skin, imprisoning his magic far from where he could reach it. All that was left were his crawling skin and the concrete below, no air to breathe and no body to move, he was  _ dying _ , and it was by  _ fae magic _ and  _ they had warned him _ \- 

Then it stopped, hesitating. It was only a moment, but Sportacus’ energy reacted immediately and shielded him once again, after which the poor elf had the misfortune to endure something along the lines of magical whiplash. The world twitched saccadically, colors bleeding through objects and fading arbitrarily, while past unsaid words and future spoken actions buzzed in his ears over the roar of the magical storm whipping up in Robbie’s living room.

Robbie.

The villain sat at the foot of his recliner, claws embedded in the fur and tear-scarred face pressed against the right armrest. He was oozing purple and grey and pink and blue, smothering the room with his colors and obviously at a loss of control.

“Robbie,” Sportacus called through his mangled throat. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like chewing nails. He pressed on anyway. “Robbie, you  _ must calm down! _ ”

For a moment, the elf thought he heard the villain whimper, but then: “You. Are.  _ Incorrigible! _ ”

Right, direct communication: not helping. Duly noted. Which meant Sportacus had to come up with a solution by himself, which he had to execute by himself, while avoiding… everything near Robbie. 

His first thought was to placate him with  _ food _ \- like cake- but he was almost certain this was not a problem that could be solved with sweets, not to mention that he was secretly terrified of Robbie’s automatic cake-maker. His second thought was  _ sleep _ , but for that he’d have to knock Robbie out, and he really didn’t want to risk that plan’s failure. Which only left one option.

Robbie’s magic seemed to notice Sportacus’ sudden determination. Unsatisfied with its incorporeal form, the mass thunderstorm decided that, failing the manifestation of a physical being, it would like to try tossing things around. Mainly, what looked like a modified toaster oven with a cupcake inside, flung half-way across the room in Sportacus’ general direction.

The elf ducked, briefly checked to make sure it wasn’t making a second round in his direction, then dropped to all fours and began to crawl across Robbie’s living room floor, dodging chunks of miscellaneous junk and machinery pitched his way. He took cover behind a makeshift barricade, where the itching feeling of Robbie’s wards increased, and the elf suddenly realized it wasn’t just the wards that were bothering him.

No, none of this seemed right at all.

Fae were known worldwide as the troublemakers of the magical world. Yes, there were far worse species and far better, but in general, they played tricks, lured innocents into traps, and on the odd occasion managed to get roped into a relationship with an elf. At least, that was what Sportacus could glean from personal experience and his older brother.

But a single fae would never,  _ never _ have had the power to do something like this. This was enormous, startling in comparison with what  _ should _ have been happening. A fae’s loss of control was tighter, more controlled. This was- some sort of abomination. A hybrid power.

Yesterday, Sportacus had thought that Robbie’s magic seemed a little too strong for his supposed status as partial-fae, and now he regretted dismissing the thought. Fae were instinctively hostile toward outside magical beings- the elf had most certainly felt Robbie’s hostility bond on his first day, but had thought nothing of it, recognizing that an elf would probably set off alarm bells in a fae’s mind, and by the time he had reconsidered this position, the bond’s power had already faded and Robbie had become used to his presence- but  _ this _ much power to oppose a magical being who most likely hadn’t even realized her full lineage yet? It was disproportionate, unlikely, and highly unnerving.

Something was wrong, here. And Sportacus was determined to find out what.

It was about at that moment that the elf was struck sideways in the face with a flying frying pan. Sportacus cried out, covering his cheek with one hand while the other steadied himself on the ground. The pan, which had landed a foot in front of him, sparked twice then lay dead. A frankly dubious idea passed through the elf’s head.

The concentration of magic- and therefore flying projectiles- was considerably higher the closer Sportacus got to Robbie. Which meant soon enough, he would have to be fighting off many more hostile cooking wares than the eager frying pan. If he was to continue, he would need a weapon. And, given that his tennis racquets were up in his airship…

Sportacus grabbed the frying pan, tossed it around in his grip, and smiled. He was being attacked by heavy machinery, Robbie was on the verge of a magical meltdown, and there was something very, very wrong with the scope of magic that this town managed to achieve, but despite his best efforts, the elf couldn’t find it in himself not to get excited. Some things never changed.

Charging in with the ferocity of a barbaric warrior with a blunt weapon, Sportacus dove toward the focus of all of the magic, batting away silverware, leftover cake remnants, a mini-fridge, and two microwave doors, only just managing to slide between two converging slices of metal wall designed to squish him.

At last, he made it into Robbie’s vicinity, and unsurprisingly, the calm of the storm. Outside of his indeterminate bubble, clangs of metal on metal and the crackle of moving magic rattled the air, but it was almost completely silent in the eye of it all.

Almost. Sportacus could still hear Robbie’s sobs over the incessant pounding of his heartbeat.

Stricken with a feeling he would rather push down under a plaster smile and a fun game of kickball, the elf took a deep breath and knelt beside the man, the feeling of thorns in his skin growing as he drew nearer. Exerting this much energy was taking a toll on the villain’s personal wards, however, and Sportacus didn’t feel too uncomfortable putting a hand on the villain’s back and drawing him into a gentle embrace.

His tears were hot and wet and every bit as painful as the magic around them, but they were soaked up by Sportacus’ uniform, and eventually the well behind Robbie’s eyes ran dry. He didn’t look up, but stared down at Sportacus’ chest. A few minutes passed.

“You told me it wasn’t going off,” it was barely a croak, but Sportacus jolted all the same.

“What?” Sportacus glanced at his crystal, now pulsing with a brief flash. It was warm, but not as warm as Robbie. “Oh. Not to kick you while you are down, but. I believe that’s for me, not you.”

“Huh,” Robbie said, and Sportacus finally noticed how tired the villain looked. The bags under his eyes were heavy and wet, coaxing his eyelids further and further down. He sat slumped against the elf, all reservations gone, and his speech was heavily affected. “My bad. I guess. I’m just… gonna… good night, Sportacus.”

“Er, Robbie?” The elf laughed nervously. He still had many questions, and he couldn’t be sure if it would be safe to let the man fall asleep so suddenly, but- Robbie had just used his real name, hadn’t he? “...Good night, Robbie.”

He waited until the villain’s snores were completely audible before glancing up at the collateral he was likely to throw a fit over when he woke up. Or, at least he  _ would _ have, if there actually was any visible damage.

The room was as clean as it had always been, appliances and silverware in their proper places, with no sign of any sort of magical struggle at all. It was calm- eerily so, and Sportacus repressed a shiver, instinctively pulling Robbie a little closer against his chest.

That-  _ that _ wasn’t normal. What…?

_ Slits. _ There were slits on his back. Sportacus slowly moved his hand off of Robbie’s back, ignoring how the man curled inward from the lack of contact. Beneath the fabric of his jumpsuit, even just barely visible from where the elf was sitting, were two mountainous ridges sliced down the villain’s back, poking up in some places and valleying in others like a grotesque cliffside. 

Even now, they appeared to be a source of leakage of Robbie’s magic, slithering in tendrils and prodding at the lair’s air. It hit Sportacus suddenly that if Robbie was a master of disguises, he probably specialized in complex glamours- glamours too strenuous to hold after a magical meltdown and through its aftermath.

Two slits on Robbie’s back, at his magical center.

Right where his wings should have been.

Sportacus’ chest flashed once, then his crystal fell silent.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The kudos button, unlike your unfriendly neighborhood fae, is not inherently hostile if you touch it. 
> 
> Instead, the kudos button, like your unfriendly neighborhood fae, does like a cuddle or two after a meltdown.
> 
> (This has been your regularly scheduled meltdown)
> 
>  
> 
> (am i being subtle enough here guys i cant tell)


End file.
